ve, save
you."

She was almost in his arms. She did not resist but she looked a little
pitifully into his face. "You will not--please!" she begged.

Once more the music passed away into the clouds. It was the gate into
Paradise over which he had leaned, but the gate was locked, and as he
stood there it seemed to grow higher and higher, until he could not even
see over the top. Almost roughly he turned away.

"Quite right," he muttered. "I must not touch the Princess of my fairy
garden. Only let us go back now, please. I cannot stay here any
longer."

She obeyed at once. There was a queer, pathetic little droop at the
corners of her lips, and she avoided his eyes.

"Good-bye!" he said.

His tone was dull and spiritless. Something, for the moment, seemed to
have passed from him. He seemed, indeed, to lack both inspiration and
courage. Her fingers clung slightly to his. She was praying, even,
that he might laugh to scorn her unspoken appeal. He moved a yard away
and stood looking at her. Her heart began to beat wildly. Surely her
prayer would be granted! The light of adoration was coming back to his
eyes.

"I cannot see the truth!" he cried hoarsely. "You belong to me--I feel
that you belong to me! You are part of the great life. I have found
you--you are mine! And yet . . . I feel I mustn't touch you. I
don't understand. Perhaps I shall come back."

He turned and hurried off. She watched him until he was a speck upon
the road; watched him, even then, from among the shadows of the trees.
There was a lump in her throat and a misty light in her eyes. She had
forgotten everything that had seemed absurd to her in this strange
little romance. Her eyes and her arms, almost her lips, were calling
him to her.

CHAPTER XII

A BOLT FROM THE BLUE

Burton's life moved for a time among the easy places. The sub-editor of
the Piccadilly Gazette, to which he still contributed, voluntarily
increased his scale of pay and was insatiable in his demand for copy.
Burton moved into pleasant rooms in a sunny corner of an old-fashioned
square. He sent Ellen three pounds a week--all she would accept--and
save for a dull pain at his heart which seldom left him, he found much
pleasure in life. Then came the first little break in the clear sky.
Mr. Waddington came in to see him one day and Mr. Waddington was
looking distinctly worried. He was neatly and tastefully dressed, and
his demeanor had lost all its old offensiveness. His ma